Exit Wounds: a ficlet
by Cati-dono
Summary: One-shot based on a gorgeous piece of fanart (link inside). Cas is fallen now, but he misses his wings. Dean gets them back for him the only way he can. Doesn't have to be Destiel unless you want it to be. A little random but not super deep- I wrote it in like twenty minutes.


This is a one-shot that I wrote for brightfallenstars, based on her stunning piece of fanart called "Exit Wounds" (it's the story image but is also found on her tumblr, post/34304054421/). I suggest you look at the picture, it really helps with the ficlet! :)

PS If you have a tumblr, be sure to visit her and show her some love!

* * *

Castiel knows it's silly.

He knows it's stupid and is only going to make him feel worse. And he really doesn't care. He appreciates the way that Dean just nodded quietly when Cas asked him about it. Appreciates how the hunter doesn't say anything harsh, or worse, sympathetic. He just nods and tells Cas that he knows a guy.

Cas doesn't really have a lot to do with the planning- it's still harder than expected for him to talk about it. His responses to Dean's questions are monosyllabic: "longer" "black" "no notches". If his answers frustrate Dean, the hunter keeps it hidden, teasing out little pieces of information as well as he can. Cas refuses to speak to the tattoo artist about it at all. Luckily the man doesn't seem to be the sort to ask a lot of questions.

In about two weeks Dean hands Cas a carefully folded sheet of paper, telling him to "look it over when he can". Cas opens it immediately. The sketch inside is so detailed that it takes Cas a minute to catch his breath. He asks Dean if they can really do that, and Dean gives him a gentle smile. "I told you- this guy is good." Dean seems nervous about adding the anti-possession tattoo but Cas assures him that it's fine. He never used to be open to possession, but now... well better safe than slaughtering innocents. After another minute of staring, Cas closes the paper and hands it back to Dean. They both ignore how his hand is shaking. Dean asks when, and Cas wants to say now but instead says "whenever he's ready." Dean knows though. Dean always knows.

The air in the tattoo parlor is comfortable, but goosebumps still race down Cas' arms as he pulls off his shirt. Another human reflex. The guy doesn't say much of anything, using grunts and gestures to position Cas just right on the table. He stays quiet about the scars too, but Cas imagines that he can feel the man's eyes burning on them. Dean sits next to Cas, backwards in a rickety old chair like so many times before, and talks. Cas doesn't know what he's talking about for most of the time, but his words drown out the hum of the machine, and dull the prick of the needle.

Cas lays there for hours, until Dean's voice gets hoarse and the prickling of the needle has spread down both arms and across his shoulder blades. Every few seconds he feels the soft touch of a towel on the tender skin, but he doesn't flinch. Nothing could hurt worse than what's already gone. Finally the machine stops. In the silence he hears the man say a few quiet words to Dean, and the rustle of money changing hands. Cas wonders briefly where Dan got it, then decides that it doesn't matter that much. Dean helps him sit up, then steadies him as the man wraps layers of soft gauze around his chest and his biceps. Throughout the whole process, Cas barely says a word, but as they walk out he turns back to the man and whispers "thank you." The man doesn't respond, but Cas wasn't really expecting him to.

That night Dean sits Cas down in the tub of the latest crappy motel and slowly peels off the bandages, wetting them down when they stick. With more tenderness than Cas thought he was capable of, Dean rubs warm water across his back, clearing away the last traces of blood and ink. He pats Cas' back carefully with a towel, making sure the new ink is clean and dry.

"I want to see it."

Dean hesitates for a moment, but helps Cas stand up, strong hands gripping his forearms to give him more support. The motel mirror is cracked in one corner, but it's plenty wide for Cas' slim frame. Dean positions Cas in front of it, backwards, and stands in front of him. He puts his hands on Cas' shoulders, but high up by his neck, keeping them away from the tender new lines.

"Are you sure about this Cas? You can wait a few days, let it heal more-"

"I want to see it now Dean."

Dean huffs out a breath and nods, moving his hands to let Cas slowly turn his head. When his eyes focus on the tattoo, he can't help but gasp a little. The lines are bold across his skin, the edges of the feathers so defined that he can almost see the individual fibers. Each feather is drawn and inked separately, using shades of black and deep cerulean blue that give the image depth and motion. His muscles ripple under the ink and for a moment Cas imagines that the wings are real, that he could stretch them and fly away. Then he runs a finger down one of the primaries and feels nothing but cold, fragile skin. The edges of the ink are still red and angry, and when he holds his hand over it the design is radiating heat. It almost looks like the wings are burning on his back. Burning again.

"Is it good, Cas?"

Dean always knows. So when Cas turns back to him and buries his face in Dean's chest, fists clenched in the fabric of his shirt, Dean holds him. He doesn't say something snarky about chick flicks, he doesn't comment on the way Cas' tears are slowly soaking through the flannel. He just puts his arms around Cas, a little below the tattoo, and holds his angel as he cries.

In the mirror, the wings on Castiel's back shiver with his sobs.


End file.
